Small Town Taxi (Honey Walker Adventures Book 1)

by Harriet Rogers

  The other one smirked as he tossed his cane in with the walker. “Unless we get one of them four-hour erections. Did we get any of that Viagra stuff?”

  “Naw, they don’t sell that in this store. I think we gotta go to the grocery store.”

  I wasn’t going to redirect their search for Viagra. They had to be 80 years old. The Hardy Boys in their golden years. Or, possibly, Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Now I knew why the entrance to the porn store was well hidden.

  I pulled over fast and left them at the retirement complex. When had 80 become the new 30? I was approaching the latter and I didn’t want to think about any age after that.

  I dropped the cab off at the office and reluctantly headed over to the cop station on foot. It was 6 o’clock and I was sleepy, hungry, and grumpy, three of the seven dwarves rolled into one.

  Having given Belle a key to my apartment, I wanted to get there before she got too comfortable. I agreed to let her sleep on my couch, but I wanted to be sure she was the only one sleeping on it.

  I stopped at the front desk and picked up the phone to communicate with the cop behind the bulletproof glass. He looked like a big blue fish stuck in a small glass bowl.

  He buzzed me in and I wound my way around the desks and cubicles to find Jon’s office. He rose when I paused at the door and motioned me to a chair in the corner. He came around and sat on his desk facing me. That was a good sign. I squirmed anyway and he grinned. I shifted my butt deeper into the visitor’s chair and looked at my feet. When I raised my eyes, his grin had widened. The fact that it made him more attractive pissed me off. My automatic reaction to authority was a mix of intimidation, defiance and a little respect. Jon wore his authority easily and well. That I almost really liked him only made it worse.

  “Captain Donnelly called from the Springfield police. It seems you may have witnessed, or been involved in, the destruction of city property. Namely a parking-enforcement vehicle. It exploded and had to be towed away. What would you know about this? And, Honey, let me remind you I am a cop. Don’t even think about lying. Or omitting anything pertinent. I have a lot on my watch right now and I need the cooperation.”

  “Hey, all I was doing was picking up a fare. I brought him back here. The cabbies down there are crazy. I don’t know how they survive. Most of their fares would be just as happy to shoot them. And down there they shoot to kill,” I said. “I might have to start packing a weapon.” I knew I would never carry a gun but I wasn’t sure if Jon knew that. My rule of thumb is to tell the police as little as possible so I dropped the subject of weaponry.

  “God prevent that. You don’t need a weapon to cause mayhem. Just tell me what happened.”

  I told him the story of the two cabs playing bumper car and the lighted cigar-gasoline-bullet hole combination. Jon shook his head. I had been running into some pretty bizarre situations, but none of them were my fault. Some people call this attitude denial. I knew I was an accident waiting for a catalyst.

  “Okay, I’ll call Springfield and clear that up. I don’t suppose you got a cab number, license plate or any kind of ID on the two cabs?”

  “One was local Springfield and the other was from Holyoke. I just kept my head down. And one of those bullets hit my car too. If you find them, I want to sue.” Jon had already seen that bullet mark on my car.

  “If anyone finds them, and it won’t be me, they won’t have two bricks to rub together. Their sorry asses will be behind bars.”

  Jon stood up and I followed. “So, can I go now? I really need to get home and eat.” And check up on Belle.

  “Come on, I’ll give you a ride. We can pick up a pizza on the way. I want to talk to Belle about her future plans, arrange an interview. See what she might know about the husband, Horace, and what activities might have contributed to his having a hole in his head.” Jon rested a hand on my back and steered me out of the cop maze.

  I wanted to know Belle’s plans too. I sincerely hoped they didn’t include turning tricks out of my apartment. I wondered what other job skills she had.

  When Jon and I got to the apartment, pizza in hand, Belle was there and had made herself at home. Which was nice because, apparently, being at home included cooking, grocery shopping, and cleaning. My tiny place was spotless, and the fridge was stocked with soda, orange juice, eggs, cheese, and salad makings.

  “I’ll make a salad to go with it.” She jumped up when she spied the pizza and headed into the kitchen.

  I worked to close my mouth. Jon smiled. Maybe a roomie wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  When we had settled into the pizza, Jon started the conversation in typical cop fashion, with blunt force trauma.

  “How are you planning to make a living, Belle? Now that Horace is gone. And when can you come into the station for an interview?”

  Belle swallowed hard. She was probably telling the truth about not liking Horace, but he was a major part of her life, and having someone close to her shot dead had to make rational planning difficult. Her solution was to live with me. How rational was that? For either of us.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go back to college, do some post-grad work. I could add some real diversity to their classes, a few reality checks, the wisdom of age.”

  I looked over at her. Post-grad meant she was a grad of some college somewhere.

  “Huh, a former prostitute in classes with impressionable young ladies from rich families, rich, full-tuition-paying families. It is former, isn’t it?” Jon raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Oh yeah, I’ve learned ho’ing ain’t no life. I got better endeavors to pursue. Maybe work part time and do school the rest.”

  Jon just nodded. They arranged to meet the next day.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning I headed to the taxi garage, and Belle went to face Jon and the cop station. I hadn’t learned much more about her. No girl talk. No revelations about Horace or life in the trade. That was okay with me. I hadn’t decided how close I wanted to get to Belle and her problems. They could be pretty overwhelming. She could be overwhelming even without any problems. I might be willing to get some shoe advice from her. And how did she keep those nails so long and perfect? And what did a prostitute do with 2-inch nails? She had some skills I might lack. Not my job skills, but there were lots of other areas of expertise I was willing to learn about. I could see some crossover potential from her former job to my… whatever, my thoughts drifted to Jon.

  The only time Cool Rides had ever picked up Belle was when I transported her from the courthouse. I had seen her riding in another company’s cabs. Mostly heading south on the interstate. I hadn’t asked why she never called us.

  When I got to the garage, the parking lot was filled with a bizarre collection of cars and people. I skirted the crowd and went around and through the back door.

  “What’s with the misfits?” I asked Mona.

  “We have five cars and three drivers. I ran an ad for new drivers.”

  She held up a stack of applications.

  “We have interviews every 15 minutes starting right now. Since you’re officially management, you get to help.”

  I liked the idea of being recognized as management even though my share was tiny. Then we looked out the window at the line of people scrambling to establish a pecking order. I sighed and understood the downside of being in charge.

  A guy with arms bulging out of a black T-shirt that declared “FUCK You” to the world made it almost to the front of the line and shoved a small blond person of indeterminable gender backward into the bosom of a well-endowed woman where he/she was swallowed by oversized breasts.

  An elderly lady, whose white hair looked like a light bulb sitting on her shoulders, stood at the head of the line brandishing a heavy cane. Even Mr. FUCK You wasn’t getting by her.

  She backed in the door, waving her cane, and hobbled to the visitor’s chair. She put one hand in her lap and she primped her hair which had frizzed a bit more in the fight to get through the doo
r and now looked like a dandelion gone to seed. She stared blankly at the wall.

  “You must be Margaret Snazhour.” Mona looked up and blinked at the whiteness.

  At the sound of a voice, Margaret Snazhour refocused her gaze.

  “I’m here to be a taxi driver. What do I have to do to become one?”

  “You need a valid driver’s license. And you can’t have any felonies on your record.” Mona paused.

  Margaret Snazhour stared at a point closer to Mona. She was zeroing in.

  “Do you have any felonies on your record?” I asked.

  Margaret smiled serenely. “Not yet. Do you think I need one?” She glanced around to see if a new felony might pop up.

  “We’ll call you.” Mona helped Margaret to the door and yelled “Edwardo Szezmecki, you’re up next.”

  Mr. FUCK You sauntered in. He might help with our need for big guys to go into the rougher parts of Springfield but I wasn’t sure about his intellectual capacity. He did have to find Springfield before he could brave the combat zones.

  “Do you have a dress code? ’Cause I don’t need nobody telling me how to dress. I need to let the assholes I pick up know who they’re dealing with. I want ’em to see these.” He flexed, watching his biceps wiggle. “What kind of weapons do we carry? Does the company supply a gun?”

  “We’ll call you,” said Mona.

  Stewart Slipslit, the blond, gender-ambiguous person, came next.

  “Do you have any driving experience?” Mona asked.

  “I’ve always wanted to drive. I just worship Dale Earnhardt, Jr. I bet I could make those cars do things you never dreamed of. I could make Jr. do things he’s never dreamed of.” She/he smiled. “And I’ve only been busted once. It’s still pending. I would never have solicited such a brute. God! He was so ugly. I’m going to fight this charge like horse cocky. Does the company provide legal counsel?”

  “You get the next one.” Mona handed me the clipboard and fled to the bathroom.

  “Bobby DeBenny, come on down,” I yelled. A man and a woman fought to get through the door, Keystone Cops making a big entrance through a small door.

  “Which one of you is Bobby DeBenny?”

  “I am,” replied the woman.

  “I was born first.” The guy shoved her backward and slammed the door.

  “We’re twins. But I’m better for this job. Robert—that’s me—and Roberta. That’s her.” He waved dismissively.

  We ended the interviews with only one application not in the wastebasket.

  We had gone through a guy who wanted to know if our insurance covered him if he accidentally ran over his neighbor. “Who, by the way, is boffing my wife,” he said and asked if the company provided personal-injury lawyers.

  Mona almost beheaded a large, muscular man who asked if he had to take orders from a fat old lady like her or did we have a real man in charge somewhere.

  When the last applicant came in, he seemed sort of close to almost normal.

  “Got any driving experience?” Mona inquired.

  “God is my guide. I trust he will steer for me. Can I offer you some literature?”

  We really needed drivers.

  The rest of my day was made up of short-haul fares which meant a lot of driving and not a lot of income. Fortunately I got a couple of good tips.

  I picked up a British woman at the downtown hotel where shopping, coffee, entertainment, drug dealers, and casual prostitutes are all within an easy walk. There are at least two coffee shops on each block to reboot energy levels continuously. Good shopping, good food, and good everything else.

  She wanted to go to the mall outside Holyoke, twenty miles south on the interstate. I sighed. We motored off to the acres of concrete.

  Like malls around the country, this one has killed the inner city as a shopping district. That’s why cabbies going into downtown Holyoke carry at least a can of mace. But the mall is an easy run off the interstate, and the likelihood of car or driver returning with bullet holes is slim.

  When I picked her up later, she smiled a well-sated-woman smile and handed me a fat tip.

  The next fare was the Smoker. Mostly we run errands for him. Today he wanted a ride downtown.

  His living space reflected his belief that it is dangerous to be more than six inches from some form of nicotine. Cigarettes were stacked against the wall in cartons, boxes, and individual packs. Loose singles were everywhere. He was planning ahead for the apocalypse in case it didn’t include smokes. Lately he had added nicotine patches. This was not an effort to cut back on his smoking. He had two patches on his arm and a lighted cigarette.

  I staggered back from the secondhand smoke, held my breath and bolted outside to suck clean air.

  I stashed his walker in back and checked his seat belt. When he died, it wouldn’t be from putting his head through my windshield. After dropping him off, I rolled down windows and turned the air conditioner on high. He didn’t smoke in the cab, but I still did a two-exit run down the interstate to deodorize the cab. Fortunately, he tipped really well.

  The last fare was a regular in need of toilet paper. I grabbed a six-pack from the fast-mart and delivered to their door.

  “Ah do appreciate this. We was usin’ coffee filters ’cause we run out of everything else. Kinda rough on the rear, if ya know what ah mean.”

  I snatched the 10-dollar bill plus a fiver for the toilet paper and scurried to the cab.

  When I dragged myself home, Belle was in the kitchen cooking. Jon was leaning back in a chair, flipping through television channels. I liked the cooking concept as long as someone else was doing it. Maybe I liked seeing Jon there too. He was growing on me.

  This morning, Jon had a formal interview with Belle in a formal interview room with a recorder running. Which had accomplished nothing.

  Right now, he was rolling something around in his brain and had decided to join us for dinner.

  I was curious why Belle never used Cool Rides unless the police made the phone call, so I switched my focus to her. No other cab company in town had cars as nice as ours. And the other company’s drivers…ugh.

  Belle served dinner on the kitchen table which was actually in my living room which would also be the guest bedroom.

  “So, Belle,” I said, “why don’t you use Cool Rides when you go to Springfield or Holyoke?”

  Jon came back from outer space and his attention shifted to Belle. He watched her like a retriever eyeing a tennis ball.

  “Horace made the arrangements. I figured he had an agreement and he usually came with me to the drop off. He said he wanted to check out the clientele, make sure they wouldn’t give me any grief. But he never came inside. They could have been space aliens for all he knew. And, Honey, those other drivers? They’re huge. I never had one that didn’t scare me just to look at him. I always thought they were packin’, too. They sat like they had a lump up their butts. I would have used Cool Rides but Horace said your boss wasn’t accommodating enough.”

  “Yeah, since the shootout at the train station, he’s been taking all the Springfield and Holyoke calls himself or letting Andrew do it. We really need to get some new drivers.” I rested my head on my hand. I was ready for bed.

  “I thought you had enough.” Jon looked at me. “What about that big guy? He would have been good for those runs, maybe even for late-night bar runs.”

  “Willie avoids bar runs. Doesn’t want barf in the cars. And the big guy got a less stressful job as a guard up at county jail. We’re down to two drivers plus Willie.”

  Belle looked at me speculatively. “So, what’s it pay?”

  I stared at her, thinking about the day of interviews we’d had. Well, she beat any of them. As long as she wasn’t using the car for her own business ventures, Willie might not hold her previous job experience against her. She would be good company when business was slow; she had lots of people experience; taxi driving is a service job—and she’d been in a service profession—sort of.


  “I’ve been thinking about a career change. I need to lower my stress level. Men have expectations when they’re paying. Besides, I’m tired of having strange things stuffed in my mouth.” She sighed. “And in other places.”

  I gulped and coughed.

  “How often you been busted?” Jon knew the rules for driving a cab in Northampton.

  “Me?” Belle shook her head indignantly. “Never. No, uh-uh, not ever. Not even a parking ticket. I’m smarter than the law.”

  Jon knew better than to start a pissing contest with Belle. “I mean you can’t have a record if you want to get a taxi-driving license. They run your background through the police database before they even look at you.”

  “Nothing in their precious database about me. You want me to put something in there?” She smiled wickedly at Jon.

  “Then what was the tracking bracelet for?” I asked.

  “I was a witness. And we won’t go there. Suffice it to say I will pass the felony check with flying colors.” Belle adopted her British accent. I was beginning to enjoy the way she played with her language skills.

  “Tell me more about Horace and the other cab companies.” Jon wanted to pull on that string for a while.

  I wanted to know more about the tracking bracelet, but Belle had decided to stop talking. The conversation continued, mostly from Jon’s side. He kept trying to get information from Belle who clearly wasn’t ready to implicate herself or anybody else, living or dead, in illegal activity. She smiled her best “kiss my butt, copper” smile and kept silent.

  I was moving around the kitchen and I noticed Jon’s eyes following me. He finally stood up. “I’m going home. Long day tomorrow, researching local taxi companies.” He stretched his hands over his head. My libido kicked me in the stomach a little. Jon was a very attractive man. “Honey, could I see you outside?” he said.

  “Yeah, sure.” Whatever he wanted, spying on Belle wasn’t on my agenda. I stepped into the hall, pulled the door closed and turned toward Jon.